


Simon and Garfunkel Could Never

by sprinkles888



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Father Figures, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Jack Frost and Pitch Black as Allies, Sort Of, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travelling Jack Frost, Tongue-in-cheek, other guardians mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-26 02:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17133341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprinkles888/pseuds/sprinkles888
Summary: The thing about becoming a Guardian after three-hundred years of messing about is that you really start to believe in redemption.So when time travel plonks itself down on the table, Jack decides it’s about time he made friends with the darkness - Pitch Black himself.Yeah, there’s no way this could go wrong.





	Simon and Garfunkel Could Never

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays y'all, this piece is for frost-guardian over on tumblr for RotG Secret Santa! Hope you like it & it hits that Pitch-Jack friendship with a side of fatherly North you mentioned. 
> 
> p.s. love me some time travel ridiculousness
> 
> and i of course had this song on repeat the whole time i was writing this:  
> [Sound of Silence ](https://youtu.be/3HboNZ8HFF8) (this cover specifically).

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/161099712@N05/31552580427/in/dateposted-public/)

The spinning is like traveling through one of North’s snowglobes, except that instead of lovely, shining, sparkling lights, it’s choking. Sand. Everywhere. 

And he means _everywhere._

Thankfully, when he lands—or, more accurately, does an impression of landing as best as a nearly hypothetical idea of consciousness can land—the scraping sand feeling goes away. Of course, it’s replaced with the feeling of being shoved in a space much too small for you, but Jack rather thinks it’s an improvement. As much as he loves Sandy, having half the beach in your pants is never a comfortable adventure.

_Who? What the—?_

“Oh, hey,” Jack says lamely, with a mouth that’s just a little too stiff, “I’m you from the future. Sorry about the whole ‘body-stealing’ thing, not much I can do about it.”

The presence he’s shoved up against inside his head gives his best impression of blinking slowly with raised eyebrows. There’s a moment of denial, and then acceptance. Weird is in the job description—the one he never got, anyway.

_So. Time-travel’s a thing?_

“Oh yeah,” Jack says, taking in the world, “Big thing. Mostly not in use, of course. Uh, have you met Bunny yet?” He thinks this might be Switzerland, those are probably the Alps, “Also, what year is it?”

_Bunny? You mean the Easter Bunny?_

“Uh, yeah, ‘bout yea high,” he gestures above his head, “big ears, bigger ego, kinda looks like a kangaroo?”

_Yeah, I’ve run into him a few times._

“He’s big into the whole time-travel thing. Or he used to be? Or will be? I never quite figured that out, there were like, a _lot_ of versions of him there. Have we lost track of the year already?” He wiggles himself out of a snowbank and looks up and down the mountain he—they—he—oh, forget it, the mountain _Old-Jack_ had been chilling on.

_Ha, chilling! That’s a good way to use that word._

“He-ey,” Jack draws out with annoyance, “Can you read my mind?”

_I don’t know. It’s like you’re thinking loudly and I’m just . . . here._

Jack stretches his legs and tenses his fingers around his staff. The wind curls around him and he mutters a quiet hello.

_Also, ‘Old Jack’? Bit of a weird way to put it. I mean, obviously you’re older if you’re time-traveling back to me. And hey, how does that work? Do you remember you coming back to . . . Well, now. As me?_

“You’re ‘Old Jack’ because I’m the ‘New Jack’. Guardian and sworn into the spiritual congress and blah-blah and all. New leaf, new journey, whatever other phrases you want to use. And honestly, you think I have an idea? This . . . quite literally makes as much sense to me as it does to you. Because I’m you. But not. Kind of.”

A moment ticks by, and Jack wonders what he did to shut up the Old-Jack.

_. . . Guardian?_

And just then, Jack figures out how to kind of—well, it’s not snuggling, but it sort of is—press up against his old self and things click so quickly it’s hard to take it.

_Who-am-I-what-am-I-doing-here-why-why-I don’t KNOW moon-why-everyone hates me—new me? old me? GUARDIAN? I’m-not-it’s-not_

“Nineteen-hundreds already?” Jack asks breathlessly as he leans against his staff, closing his eyes against the rush of memories. It’s him, so these are his, but he chooses to block out a lot. Tooth would probably chide him for it, but if he has to face those on the regular far too many places would be snowed in. He wasn’t . . . in a good place for some of it.

_Are you reading my mind? Also what the f-_

“Hey, Guardian here. Get a start on getting rid of that language, it took me _forever_ and you’d think North would be more forgiving about it, but man, that guy can chew you out.” Jack tries to catch his bearings one more time and then leans into the wind and pushes off.

_HEY! Stop that!_

And he does, but most definitely not on purpose. He drops, the wind slipping around him and any air in his lungs (that don’t really have much function) disappears. That’s what he was missing, he realizes as he’s hurtling toward the earth—breathing. A heart beat. Everything that had come after accepting his Guardianship.

Inside his-their-oh, _whatever_ —inside the head Jack currently resides in, Old-Jack twists forward and squishes Time-Traveling-Jack down down down _down_ and suddenly the wind picks up and they’re saved from a particularly nasty crash with a rocky ledge and a potential tumble down the side of a mountain.

_Hey,_ Jack complains, _I’ve got a job to do, you know. I didn’t go through that sand vortex thingy and create an entirely separate timeline just to hang out in my own head._

“New timeline—you know what? I do not care. I simply do not care. My own future self crash-landed in my head, time-travel is _real_ , and I’m a—I—in the future—I’m a Guardian?” Old-Jack trails off, blinking, and then sinks down softly to land in the snow. He sits on top of it, weighing practically nothing just because he doesn’t want to. Man, Jack forgot about these days. 

_Yeah. Guess that’d be a bit of a shock. It’s been . . . man, what, seventy years or something for me. You’re at like, negative one-hundred._

Jack, squashed into an even tighter space then before tries to comfort . . . himself. Which is a weird thought. And thought is all he is, so it’s just plain weird. It’s a hug, of sorts, in the extremely metaphorical sense, but Old-Jack metaphorically leans into it and metaphorically clings tight. Jack tries to put every hug he’s had into being and press it upon his younger self. Something like that—just knowing that in the future hugs would not only be given but given _freely . . ._ Well, he did come back to change things drastically. 

Old-Jack is crying. As was the norm (is the norm?), they freeze on his face, barely even reaching his cheeks. Jack keeps the hugs at the forefront of his mind—North squeezing him half to death, Tooth’s fleeting but honest ones, Sandy, whose hugs tend to make (will tend to make?) Jack doze off, and Bunny, who’s all lean muscle under that fur and really, honestly _bad_ at it, (but he tries his best). More tears stream out and stick his eyelashes together. Soon enough, neither of them can see, but it’s not like there’s all that much to look at in the first place.

_Sorry,_ New-Jack thinks, trying to explain, _I forget how not-happy I was. Am? You are? Whatever. It’s just—adventures like these just seem to . . . keep happening. Like, just before Father Time sent me back here, me and Sandy—the Sandman, you know him—we flew out to Pluto to get some fancy space rock for some fancy spell thing that North was doing. And two weeks ago me and Tooth had to go undercover at some underground—uh, literally and figuratively—auction thing that Bunny was invited to—_

“You truly—I mean—I truly become a Guardian? Me? And . . . they . . .”

_They’re like . . . family I guess. North’s practically adopted me by this point, everyone thinks I’m like his bastard kid or something from a fling back in the day and he doesn’t even correct them anymore, and honestly it’s exhausting to keep doing it so I, like, get it, but still—_

“And . . . you. You’re happy?”

It’s hard for him sometimes to bite down on his inherent urge to make everything light-hearted, but he does it for this.

_Yes. It’s—it’s a long process. And, I mean, it was three-hundred years of not-knowing what the Moon even wanted me for. And lots of years after that getting used to responsibility and people being able to see me._

“Oh,” Old-Jack says, and then something happens in their shared head where Old-Jack slips back into place and New-Jack trips forward.

_If that_ , Old-Jack thinks, _is going to happen . . . You can lead the way._

“Well, shoot,” Jack says, flexing fingers he’s now in charge of, “if you say so. I’ll do my best. Sorry in advance for all the times I’m gonna crash this body into the ground. It’s really weird not having a heartbeat anymore.”

_What is the plan?_

“Well,” Jack says, with all the confidence he possesses, “I have no freaking clue. Let’s go!”

He launches them up and away, laughing. 

* * *

On a balcony at the North Pole, he paces back and forth, testing reflexes in fingers and toes that are a lot more dead than he’s used to. 

_So, you decided to travel all the way around the world just to end up at the North Pole._

Jack mutters a quiet, “Shut up, I was heading here the whole time.”

_No you weren’t. You were trying to figure out why Father Time sent_ you _back here specifically. And deciding to befriend an evil, shadow-dwelling man._

“I keep forgetting you can read my mind. Or you . . . are my mind? Whatever it is. If anyone’s gonna know what to do, it’s North and his library.”

_So what_ , Old-Jack thinks grouchily, _walk into the most fortified place on the planet and say ‘I’m from the future’?_

Jack pauses in his movements and purses his lips together before nodding, “Yeah, pretty much.”

_Everyone’s going to think I’ve gone mad. Incredibly so._

“Oh chill out, I’m not gonna mention the time-travel. Just that I’m looking for something and would like to use his library.”

_Oh, and the yetis will be alright with that, will they?_

The balcony door swings open and a familiar face (to both Jacks) stood in the opening, arms crossed.

“Oh hey Phil,” Jack says, and when Phil makes to grab his coat (so 1890s, but what can you do?) he jumps away, “Hey, hey, look. I’m not here to sneak in. Ran into a problem and I know you guys have a ginormous library. Is there any way I can get some help?”

Phil’s movements stall and he grumbles something Jack translates as ‘What are you on? Come in, I guess.’

The door is open, so Jack walks in, his staff slung over one shoulder.

_That—that should not have worked._

Jack is pretty sure talking out loud to himself might land him somewhere other than the library so he tries to send an image of Phil as he knows him and of the Workshop, that first time North led him through. 

_Oh._

Old-Jack settles back in and seems to be content to poke through the memories so Jack walks side-by-side with Phil who keeps one eye on him, suspicious. 

“Look,” Jack says as Phil leads him up to the library, “I’m not saying asking to get into the library in order to sneak in _isn’t_ a pretty cool plan, I’m just saying it’s not mine right now. I actually do have a problem, and honestly there’s not many other places I could go where I wouldn’t get like . . . Eaten alive or something.”

Phil chuckles a bit, and a bit of tension leaks out of his shoulders. 

They turn through the curved hallway—already lined with books, and they aren’t even in the same wing as the library yet, hoarder much?—and Jack smiles at every yeti they pass, who each have a turn with the double-take and shocked look at Phil combination. 

When they finally make it to the library—long way around, since Phil is so determined to keep him out of the Workshop—Phil holds the door for Jack, who ducks under his arm with ease.

_Whoa_ , Old-Jack puts in. 

“Whoa,” New-Jack agrees out-loud. 

They’re going to be here for awhile.

* * *

Old-Jack officially meets North about four hours and three bookshelves worth of spellbooks later. The moment Jack hears his loud all-too-Russian voice, he springs himself back in his head, pushing Old-Jack forward.

“Hey,” Old-Jack gasps once he has control of his own vocal cords, “what are you-”

_North’s a’comin’. This is all you. I’ll coach you, but I’m not stealing this._

“Wait—” Old-Jack hisses out between his teeth.

“Hello!” North booms, stomping his way into the near-silent library, joyfully ignoring the yeti at the front frantically shushing him.

“Um.”

_Hey, dude. Little more effort._

Jack can feel the annoyance and anxiety of his younger self quite clearly, so he decides that now would be a great time to shut up.

North, with all the enthusiasm Jack has rarely seen him without, smiles and reaches out a hand, “I believe we have not met. I am North!”

Old-Jack stares a bit too long at the outstretched hand, but reaches out to meet it with trepidation, “Jack Frost. It’s—it’s an honor to meet you.”

_Honor to meet you?_ Jack can’t help but tease, _C’mon, we’re better than that. Goofball it up._

A wave of anger hits him, and he remembers that he’s supposed to be quiet. 

Hands shake, and Jack is entirely grateful that North knows his own strength.

“Um, I’d like to thank you for allowing me use of your library,” Old-Jack says, drawing his hand back and tripping into formalities.

North, as usual, ignores the politeness and dives right into the problem, “Of course, of course, it’s open to all,” he says, waving a hand, “What is it you look for?”

Old-Jack blinks at him, and then Jack finds himself being pushed forward. He blinks—it’s still strange, this switch between them.

_You do this._ Old-Jack says, metaphorically vibrating with the stress of talking with someone. Jack forgot how bad the early nineteens were. 

“Well,” Jack says, grinning, “I’ve got this . . . friend? Well, I think we’re friends, he probably doesn’t. Anyway, he’s kinda gone missing, and I thought you might have a spell so that I could find him? Or something.”

It’s not a lie, technically. Except that he has not been, nor ever planned to be friends with Pitch. Okay, it is a lie. Naughty list it is. Not like that’s anything new, he’s made it on the Nice list a total of twice since he became a Guardian, and then gave up and decided to try and one-up his old record. 

North smiles back and rumbles a laugh, “I believe I can help with that! Come with me.”

He gestures them out of the room, and Jack slides the book he was flipping through back on the shelf and slings his staff over his shoulder.

_You’re_ sure _we should be here?_

Jack thinks about all the different spirits he’s seen North help, and the dozens of spells he’s seen him cast.

_Oh._

They end up in North’s office, not far away enough to justify walking through the Workshop, but Jack admires it all the same. Not much has changed (will change?) over the years, so it’s familiar. Safe. 

“Whoa,” he says anyway, admiring the various ice carvings scattered about the room in different stages of completion. 

“Indeed,” North says, cheerily, rummaging around on a shelf as Jack prods at the carvings.

“You carve all of these?” Jack says, knowing the answer, but not really minding hearing the lecture again. 

North keeps moving things around, and laughs, “Yes, this is the beginning of the toys. I carve them here, make a blueprint of sorts. Then, the yetis take and carve from wood. Then, the toys are made. It is very efficient process.”

“The detail here is amazing,” Jack says, not needing to falsify awe, “I literally make ice and I don’t know if I could do that.” He does, of course, know. He can, with some time. But, North doesn’t need to know that.

“Here it is,” North says, nearly interrupting Jack. He brings out a small, carved box, painted in all the shades of red Jack can think of. North stomps over to him and holds out a hand. Jack blinks a moment, then places his own hand in North’s, hesitating, but somewhat used to North’s eccentricities, unlike the voice in the back of his head that’s busy yelling _What are you doing?_ very, very loudly. 

The box is gently placed in his palm, and North covers it with his other hand.

“This is very, very useful box for finding lost things. And lost people. Is this friend of yours lost in some way?”

Jack looks up into big blue eyes, and thinks about Pitch—all the things the others have let slip about him, all the hurt he’s seen from him.

“Yes,” Jack says, “lost as a summer spirit in a blizzard.”

North smiles sadly and then pats the top of the box, “If you will bring it back when you find him, I would be glad.”

Old-Jack becomes fed up and pushes his way to the front again, taking a couple steps back from North and pulling the box close to his chest. 

“You would do that?” He questions, wide-eyed.

“Of course,” North says, now smiling with his whole face, “What is point of having these things if they do not help someone?”

Old-Jack looks down at the box, and curls his fingers tightly around his staff.

_You gotta say ‘thank you’_ , Jack adds in helpfully. 

“Thank you,” Old-Jack says, ducking his eyes down and shuffling backward, “I—uh, I should—” He gestures to the window with his staff.

“Yes, yes,” North says, leaning back and stroking his beard, “I’d imagine you’d want to find your friend. I will be seeing you, yes?”

“Uh, yes. Yes,” Old-Jack sputters out, “To, uh, bring this back,” he gestures to the box he’s holding awkwardly, backing out of the room.

North smiles at him again and moves to sit at his desk, “Then I will look forward to seeing you again, Jack.”

Old-Jack turns and exits the room, flitting down hallways until he finds a window to dart out of. He launches into the air, unbuttoned coat flapping violently. 

_Told you he’s good_ , Jack puts in after a few moments of hurtling through the skies at top speed.

“Uh-huh,” Old-Jack says, diving down to skid gracefully on the ice of his lake and end up atop a rock, legs tucked in and arms wrapped around them.

_So,_ Jack thinks, _are you in or out. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure doing this could help a lot of people. You too._

“Me?”

_Yeah, look. I’m you. A little different, people change and all. I mean we are relying on that idea—anyway, look. Lots happened in the nineteens. Made some enemies. Made exactly zero friends. So, I’m thinking, we change that, and off I go, you can keep trucking and be happier than I was._

“That’s . . . Kind of sad.”

_Life’s sad kid, that’s why you gotta make it happier. Guarding fun, all that jazz. Makes it worth it all, y’know?_

“I suppose.”

Once again, that shoving sensation, and Jack blinks and twitches his fingers around the red box.

“Okay, let’s go find ourselves a Nightmare King to befriend.”

* * *

Turns out the compass thing in the box is really good at its job. Jack follows the needle around to somewhere that’s probably Poland and the blinking light that tells him to descend.

He crash lands right at Pitch’s feet, after sending himself careening into multiple tree branches.

_How long is it going to take you to get used to this body again?_

Jack ignores the voice in his head and drags himself into a sitting position, shoving the box in a pocket on the inside of his coat with the same movement. There’s an awkward moment where he and Pitch stare at each other in the moonlight, and then Jack stands and brushes leaves out of his hair.

“Uh, hello,” he says, tossing a stick caught in his coat collar to the ground, “How’s it going?”

Pitch looks him up and down and turns away, “Well enough, winter spirit.”

“I’m Jack,” he chirps, not taking the dismissal as such, “Jack Frost.”

There’s a twitch of facial muscle that Jack doesn’t know quite how to interpret, and then Pitch turns to look at him once again.

“Jack Frost,” he says, the name oozing in his mouth as shadows curl around them in the darkness, “Pleasure, I suppose. I am Pitch Black, the Nightmare King.”

Pitch’s shadow figures leap up to meet him, and the trees overhead rustle a warning. Voices start whispering in the darkness, and the light that had been coming from the moon and a window wavers. 

“Nice to meet you too!” Jack exclaims, ignoring his past-self, who is busy chanting _get out get out hurry he’s going to kill you_ , “What are you up to?”

The question seems to startle Pitch, because the pressure of the darkness suddenly lessens and the world situates itself back to normal. Jack blinks, trying to hide his own surprise at the immediate lack of terror. 

“. . . I am spreading fear,” Pitch says, enunciating each word, “As that is what I do.”

“Oh, legit,” Jack says, hopping atop his staff and balancing on top for a beautiful, brief moment before his misplaced center of balance sends him sprawling.

“Whoops,” he says, rolling over to stare up at the sky and make a face at the moon, “I should really practice that more.”

_Yeah,_ Old-Jack complains, _you’ve made me out to be a fool._

He thinks really hard about the idea that _that’s the point_ and hopes his other self gets the message.

“You do not run away from me,” Pitch says, eyes narrowing, “Why?”

Jack blinks at him innocently, “Why would I?”

“I am the embodiment of darkness, fear, and nightmares,” Pitch says, voice growing stronger with each word, “ _everyone_ runs from me,” he finishes with a hiss.

“Oh,” Jack says, propping hands behind his head, “That’s not very nice of them. But I know what you mean, pretty much nobody likes talking to me, I think it’s because I talk too much, but honestly it’s a character trait and it’s not going away anytime soon. Plus, I don’t really want to talk to many winter spirits anyway, they’re all such downers. Would it hurt them to crack a smile once in a while? Hey, rhyming’s fun. Do you like rhyming?” Turns out not needing to breathe really makes it easy to keep talking.

_What are you doing?_ Old-Jack dispairs, metaphorically running metaphorical hands through metaphorical hair. 

Pitch hasn’t left yet, so Jack thinks maybe, maybe, he’s caught him at the right time. Maybe they can do some good.

“Why do you not run?” Pitch repeats, clasping hands behind his back and slinking clockwise around where Jack’s lying on the ground. 

Jack tilts his head up at him, “Fear’s a part of life too, buddy. Can you imagine what it would be like if everyone all of a sudden wasn’t afraid of anything? It would be chaos. It’s the balance, I mean, every seasonal spirit understands that. Or they should. I’m not particularly sure Demeter understands it, but then, she _is_ Greek. Roman? Whatever. They still think they rule the world.”

Pitch stops his circling to look at Jack, face oddly blank. He follows Jack’s gaze up to the moon and then he disappears for a moment. Jack jolts up and flings his head around.

_Great, now we’ve lost him. Congratulations._

“Not many people seem to take the balance into account,” Pitch’s voice says from behind him. Jack twists to find him lounging casually on the forest floor beside him.

“For fear?” Jack questions, adjusting himself so that they’re sitting not-quite side-by-side, but nearly.

“Indeed,” Pitch says, gazing off into the darkness of the trees, “they see fear as a threat. As something that needs to be disposed of.”

“Huh,” Jack says, feeling entirely unqualified to talk about this topic, “well, obviously they aren’t considering all sides of the argument.”

Conversation stalls, and Jack fiddles with a couple of buttons on his coat. A vague tugging in his mind that doesn’t come from Old-Jack alerts him to a gathering cold front to the north-east.

“I’d better get going,” Jack says, letting the wind pull him to his feet, “There’s a storm a’brewin’ that I wanna be in the middle of.”

Pitch rises to his full height once again, and looks at him, head tilted. 

“It was very nice to meet you and talk with you,” Jack says, nodding his head at Pitch. He casually sticks out a hand, “I’ll be seeing you around?”

His hand stays suspended awkwardly in the air for a beat too long, and then Pitch grasps it with his own, giving his own nod, “I suppose you will be.”

The handshake breaks, and Jack holds up a hand to finger-gun, “Don’t be stranger,” he proclaims, before gathering the wind to himself and launching up into the air. 

Old-Jack very pointedly says nothing. 

“I think that went well,” Jack ventures, spiralling through the air to Russia.

_I suppose it could have gone worse,_ Old-Jack says, begrudgingly. 

Jack snorts, “Yes it could have.”

_So, what is the plan from here?_

“Now, we wait a few weeks, drop in on him again. Then another couple, drop in for the third time. After that you’ll probably be able to sense him, so we can return the box—”

_I’m sorry,_ sense _him?_

“Oh, yeah,” Jack says, tumbling into a cloud and coming out the other side completely drenched, “I’ll teach you how to do that too. In fact, I can probably teach you a lot of things. That’s what we’ll do in-between.”

_Heaven help me,_ Old-Jack grumbles.

* * *

Jack does end up teaching Old-Jack a lot of things. He teaches him how to use the swirling power in his chest, what his staff is good for, where all the good mangos grow, and the meaning of fun. 

A lot of memories pass between them as Jack settles back into the squished back part of their shared mind and lets Old-Jack take control. Some of those are . . . more surprising than others.

“I had a _family?”_ Is a three-day long conversation. There are tears involved. 

And then the day Jack designated as _Find-Pitch_ Day arrives, and he metaphorically elbows Old-Jack out of the way and sends them twirling into the sky. 

This time he’s on a beach, late at night, and it strikes Jack as strange until he thinks about dream _sand_. He tries to gently set them down a safe distance away from Pitch, but he’s a couple weeks out of practice. Quite a few fish are startled when he goes plunging into the ocean.

_Brilliant_ , Old-Jack thinks, rolling metaphorical eyes, _absolutely smashing._

Jack wants to tell him to shut-up, but there’s the pesky fact that he’s _underwater_ , so he just thinks it as violently as possible as he kicks himself to the surface, avoiding memories of drowning as best as he can. It doesn’t go so well, but it drives him to swim faster, and all’s well that ends well.

Pitch is looking at him with a perturbed expression on his face as he makes his way to him, shaking water off of himself as he goes.

“Hello again!” Jack says, cheerily, “How’s it hangin’?”

Pitch’s forehead lifts at the turn of phrase, and Jack feels the need to clarify.

“How are you?”

“I am doing as well as could be expected,” Pitch says, resuming his stroll along the the empty beach, “Do you often have such violent crash landings or are they reserved especially for myself?”

Jack joins him on his walk, casually swinging his staff up across his shoulders and hooking his hands over it, scarecrow style, “Well, usually I’m not changing the very course of the winds just because I saw someone and wanted to say hello. Flying’s hard sometimes.”

Pitch’s forehead remains wrinkled.

“I miscalculated,” Jack admits with a sigh, “I wasn’t planning on going swimming today.”

“I gathered as much,” Pitch replies.

Jack shrugs it off, “Hey, you wanna hear a joke?”

It’s Pitch’s turn to sigh, “I suppose I am not doing anything of worth.”

“Cool!” Jack cheers, “Okay, what’s brown and sticky?” Jumping back in time was possibly the best decision he ever made. He can reuse all his old jokes.

“There are many things that could be classified that way but I imagine you’re thinking of a particular one.”

“A stick!” Jack says, bursting into laughter right after. Old-Jack is laughing too, metaphorically, of course. 

Pitch’s expression doesn’t change, and neither does his gait.

“Okay, okay,” Jack says after his chuckles have died down, “here’s another one. I waited and stayed up all night and tried to figure out where the sun was . . . Then it dawned on me!” He laughs again, and Old-Jack does the same. Pitch remains as stoic as ever. 

“Oh, you know knock knock jokes?”

Pitch sighs, “Unfortunately.”

“Okay, knock knock.”

A long pause, and then Pitch says, “Who’s there?”

“To.”

“To who?” Pitch asks, acting like Jack is committing a great grievance. That’s just him though, Jack is pretty sure.

“Um, it’s ‘To whom.” Jack finishes, grinning widely.

Pitch turns his eyes to the heavens.

They continue that way for a while, and Pitch doesn’t laugh at a single joke Jack has up his sleeve, and disappears once they reach a cliff outcropping that stops their progress along the beach. Jack waits around for a minute to see if he reappears, but then heads off, unoffended. He supposes that his jokes sometimes get to be a bit too much after a while. 

_Not for me,_ Old-Jack thinks, metaphorically cackling as he swings himself back to the front again, “Those were _hilarious._ ”

_Right?_ Jack asks.

* * *

The world keeps spinning and Jack keeps teaching for another couple of weeks. Winter starts to die down, and then there’s suddenly a huge blizzard in Canada that the winds didn’t even have time to warn Jack about. Some angry spirit, messing about. Jack can’t remember if this happened in his timeline, but most of his middle-years between rebirth and Guardianship are a bit of a blur.

Old-Jack dives into the middle of the flurries, unobstructed by the strong winds and the pelting hail that accompanies some of the flakes.

“Wonder who caused all this,” he says aloud, alighting on a chimney, “definitely wasn’t in the balance.”

_Nope,_ Jack thinks, lounging as much as a metaphorical consciousness can lounge. 

And then something other than hail and flakes and wind hits Jack in the chest. Old-Jack gazes down, one hand reaching to block the winds, and Jack metaphorically leans forward in interest.

A tiny Tooth Fairy is huddled behind his palm. Jack shoves Old-Jack out of the way, surging forward, recognition burning in metaphorical veins.

“Hey there, Baby Tooth,” he says, huddling into a ball and letting his raggedy coat block the winds. He cups the her in both hands, “You okay?”

She chirps at him, and after all these years he still doesn’t speak it fluently, but he gets the jist.

“Yeah, storm came out of nowhere for me too. Wandered up here to check who started it. Still not sure. You sure you’re alright? Your feathers are looking . . . kind of frozen.” He tries to smile at her and tucks his head in to block as much snow as he can from getting to Baby Tooth. 

Another round of chirps, and a sneeze that catches them both off guard. 

“Any of your sisters caught in this as well?” Jack asks, “And are there still teeth you guys need to get?”

More chirping, and Baby Tooth shivers.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Jack says, “I’m here anyway, so why don’t you and I round up the other Tooth Fairies, and then I can take you round to all the houses. In and out in a jiffy, and you guys won’t have to be fighting the wind.”

Baby Tooth squints her eyes at him, evaluating his honesty, and he smiles his best smile at her. It doesn’t work on her as well as it might the other fairies (it’s always been that way, for some reason), but she relents and agrees. They usually have special crews out in weather like this, she conveys in her most annoyed chirping tone, but it came on so quickly that it caught everyone off guard.

_Baby Tooth?_ Old-Jack asks as Jack takes to the sky, tucking Baby Tooth gently under his collar so she can shelter herself from the wind while also directing him to the other fairies in the area. 

Jack opens up that box of memories (metaphorically) and sends it Old-Jack’s way, hoping he’ll just let Jack be for this moment.

Baby Tooth points him to one sister after another, and they all chirp gratefully when he rescues them from a strong air current or getting stuck to window panes. After, he takes them around to every house in the area the blizzard’s hitting to collect any missed teeth, and then heads up and out of the angry clouds. Once they’re far enough away, and warm enough that the fairies start to thaw out, he touches down again.

Once everyone’s wings are up and going again, they take turns thanking him and swooning over his teeth before setting off for the Tooth Palace. Finally, only Baby Tooth is left. 

“You’ll be okay from here, right?” Jack says, not really worried, but thinking he should act like it all the same. 

Baby Tooth chirps at him, and he frowns.

“Sorry, can you say that again? I’m not very good at interpreting.”

Another round of chirping, and his eyebrows unfurl, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just joking about the whole ‘deal’ thing. I was there anyway, and wasn’t like you guys cost me any time I was missing.”

Baby Tooth chirps at him gratefully, and then flits close and hugs his ear. Jack tilts his head in acknowledgement and waves as she flits off. 

Old-Jack finally reclaims his spot at the helm, blinking in the sunlight, “That was fun!”

_Yeah it was,_ Jack thinks cheerfully. 

* * *

Whoever started the blizzard must have been a one-shot kind of spirit or got caught by somebody, because it doesn’t happen again. Spring comes a’knocking, and Jack gets an idea that Old-Jack hates down to his non-metaphorical bones. 

_C’mon,_ Jack wheedles, _it’s easy, and it’s not like you’re doing anything. Bonus, get on Bunny’s good side!_

“Who says I want to be on his good side?” Old-Jack grumbles, golfing another snowball off a cliff with his staff, “And it’ll take the _exact_ right timing to even pull it off.”

_Psh,_ Jack thinks, _Let me handle it, Bunny runs like clockwork on the run-up to Easter. Easy as cake!_

“I don’t think that’s the expression.”

_When you know North it is._

“Fine,” Old-Jack says, hitting another snowball, “But you’re doing it. I have no clue how.”

_Fine with me, so long as you pay attention._

Their agreement leads to Jack getting shoved forward to take control in Maine. He shakes his head, waits for his vision to adjust, checks the position of the sun, and gets to work.

The little winter sprites like to stick around past their welcome up around here. Eventually, they’d make their way north on their own, but a little prodding by Jack tends to help them along. Plus, it makes the spring spirits who have to deal with them a lot happier—Bunny included.

“Hey buddy,” Jack cajoles, “c’mon, you know it’s time to head north. Gonna start getting warm here, time for spring.”

The winter sprite sticks its tongue out at Jack and clings to a tree branch with its tiny arms. 

“Aww, don’t you miss the snow? I know I do. There’s lots of it up north.”

This gets the winter sprites attention, and there’s a sudden pulse of magic just up the hill from where Jack’s crouching.

_Whoa,_ Old-Jack thinks, _what’s that?_

They’ve finally figured out how to communicate in complete silence, so Jack makes use of it, _That would be one E. Aster Bunnymund. And that, kiddo, is how you read magical signatures_

_Cool_ , is the only thought that floats back his way, so he gets back to the task at hand, well aware of the presence watching him through the bushes, but ignoring it all together.

“That’s right buddy, it’s spring’s turn, so it’s time to go north. Don’t you feel like catching a sleep? It’d be a lot easier in the snow, don’tcha think? Easter’s right around the corner, it’s time to pack up.”

The winter sprite finally releases its grip on the tree at the talk of sleep. The little buggers estivate during the summer months, if they only get moving. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, encouraging, “I can take you, you wouldn’t even have to wander yourself! I’d getcha up in a snowbank in a jiffy.”

The winter sprite takes the bait—lazy little things—and launches itself at Jack, icy fingers clinging to the folds of his undershirt. Jack stretches himself up and adjusts the sprite’s grip so that it’s resting comfortably on his hip. Most of them are about as big as a newborn baby, but a million times lighter and a whole lot more clingy. He can usually take five or six per trip, and there really aren’t that many that hang around this long, so it doesn’t take too long. They’re territorial and mischievous, but they do like their sleep. 

“There ya’ go buddy, how’s about we go pick up some of your friends, make a trip out of it?”

The sprite chitters at him lazily and snuggles closer. Jack takes off, flying low enough and paying attention enough that he knows Bunny’s following. 

_What’s he doing?_ Old-Jack asks.

Jack shrugs, _He pretends otherwise, but Bunny’s curious about everything. Betcha he follows us until we drop these guys off._

And he’s right. He repeats the process again in Montana, Russia, another part of Russia (which reminds him that it’s still technically an empire, which reminds him about the Soviet Union, which reminds him of the wars that are coming), England, and some place he doesn’t know the name of, and Bunny follows him the whole way. Once he’s got a sprite on each hip, leg, and shoulder, he heads north until he gets to the point where even he knows it’s really cold and drops them off one by one in different crevasses. They each fall asleep almost immediately, and once he’s free of the last one, he stands up straight and stretches his arms out. He’s vaguely surprised Bunny followed him this far north, considering all the complaining about the cold he’s had to endure in his own timeline, but he must have really piqued his interest. 

_You haven’t had a big fight with him yet, have you?_ He double checks with Old-Jack.

_With the Easter Bunny? Nah. Bumped into each other a few times, had the whole spring-winter banter, but nothing else. Why?_

Jack’s too lazy to explain it, so he just sends over the entirety of the Blizzard of ‘68 and lets Old-Jack at it. 

_Oh._

_Yeah,_ he thinks, releasing the tension in his back and stretching down to touch his toes. The movement means he sees a flash of fur. He straightens up and pretends to be confused. He flings himself over to where he saw it and looks around, play-acting. Knowing Bunny’s just behind him, probably silently cussing out the ice and snow makes it hilarious. Finally he just shakes his head.

“Hey Wind!” he shouts to the heavens, grinning as air whooshes past his ears, “Take me home!”

Bunny doesn’t follow him this time, but he thinks there’s a better chance for Old-Jack now in avoiding the grudge-fest he and his Bunny had going on for so long.

* * *

 _Third time’s a charm_ , Jack thinks, as he prods Old-Jack forward, _This has to be all you._

“You sure?” Old-Jack questions, following the needle on the box, “I’ve—it’s you who wanted to make friends with Pitch Black.”

_C’mon, he’s grown on you. Besides, if I know anything about magic, which is debatable, three is an important number. Who knows when I’ll get flung back to my time? You gotta know what to do when I leave._

Old-Jack’s thoughts turn morose, and Jack immediately feels bad.

_Aw, c’mon champ. I can’t be your friend forever, I’m you._

_That’s what makes it great,_ Old-Jack thinks, frowning.

Jack sighs, metaphorically as always, _Yeah. I getcha. Literally. But I’ve set you up for success. You’re a million more times likely to make friends than I ever was. You’re on the path to getting people to believe in you. You know who you were, you know why the moon brought you back. I spent most of this century bemoaning my entire existence. You’re gonna be great._

“Thanks,” Old-Jack whispers aloud.

Then they crash into Sandy’s cloud. 

“Oh man,” Old-Jack says quickly, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” He flings his arms out and holds them there, staff quivering in shaking hands.

Sandy, shiny and happy as ever, just waves a hand at him and smiles. A few signs flit over his head, too fast for either Jack to read them.

“I’m so sorry, very sorry. I’ll just be heading out now. Thank you. Sorry. Nice to see you again.”

And then they’re off again, Jack metaphorically howling with laughter and Old-Jack doing the best impression of blushing someone without a functioning circulatory system can.

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbles, metaphorically elbowing Jack’s metaphorical gut.

* * *

Hanging out with Pitch goes well. Old-Jack’s absorbed enough of New-Jack’s absurdist humor from the future to keep chattering on and telling really, really awful jokes. Pitch doesn’t tell him to go away though, he just keeps being dark and dramatic, and it’s okay. They talk about the changing seasons and about the newest gossip from the Norse gods. 

When Old-Jack flies away, citing a last-minute flurry in Alaska, he turns inward.

_That actually went well! Don’t you think? And I thought you were going to coach me through it, what happened to that?_

There’s no metaphorical reply.

_Hey._

_Hey._

_Oh._

Jack’s alone again.

* * *

Once he lands back in his body, Jack shakes himself violently.

“Why does it have to feel like sand? _Everywhere?_ ”

Father Time gazes at him, unimpressed, from behind half-moon glasses, “Did you accomplish a change in the timeline?”

Jack blinks a few times and flexes his fingers, turning to grin at the other four Guardians who all smile back at him, relieved. Then he places a hand on his own chest. A beating heart, hallelujah. 

“Oh yeah. I’m pretty sure,” he draws out the word, raising an eyebrow. 

Bunny snorts from his spot by the fire, “Let’s hope so, I don’t wanna deal with any collidin’ timelines this year.”

Father Time is busy with a giant crystal ball that wasn’t there when Jack was flung through the (incredibly itchy) fabric of time.

“It does appear that major change occurred in the timeline, enough to separate the two and avoid collision. Thank you for your assistance, Frost. Guardians.”

North stands to give his farewell, but Jack jolts himself forward, landing in Father Time’s personal space, “Wait just a second.”

Everyone turns to look at him. Father Time purses his lips.

“Okay, weird phrasing, I know, but, can you like, tell me how other-me is? What happened in the timeline I changed?”

Father Time gives an aggrieved sigh, but gestures toward the crystal ball, “You may glance at the new timeline.”

Jack grins and nods his thanks, sitting beside the glowing ball. He stares into it.

_Himself, and Pitch, eating mangoes on some mountain, Jack laughing his head off at something while Pitch fought to keep a completely straight face. A whirl of snow, Bunny yelling something, and this time when Jack yells back that it’s not his fault, he believes him. A dozen sprites, clinging to his (new!) coat, an unfamiliar winter spirit nearby with another six. North, showing him through the Workshop, smiling at Jack’s enthusiasm. A baker’s dozen lazy weeks where Jack and Pitch keep wandering in circles back to each other to share stories—funny on Jack’s part, grim on Pitch’s. Baby Tooth, chirping a quick hello when she passes by. More Tooth Fairies doing the same. Another crash landing on Sandy’s cloud, this time laughed off easily. A sleepy night, spent relaxing and watching Sandy send out dreams._

_And Pitch, angrily taking down two giant snow-beasts while Jack’s busy laying on the ground, a hole through his right chest cavity. Gray arms coming to clutch Jack to his chest and picking up the two halves of a staff that Pitch would never break himself. A whirlwind, Pitch, banging on the wards of the Pole, North, letting in his worst enemy because the enemy came with an injured friend. Pitch, pacing back and forth and spitting vitriol at everyone nearby._

_Jack, blinking himself awake long enough to beg for the pieces of his staff. Pitch, helping shaking hands hold the pieces together._

_This Jack doesn’t have to put the_ metaphorical _pieces together, he already knows his power’s inside._

_Afterward, a spell, it needs the entire spinal column of a friend. North dismisses it, says sorry to Pitch, tells him it’s too dark, (and besides, Jack’s his only friend). Jack though, he has a thought. He leads them to his grave (the one the other Jack told him about), and Bunny grins a dark grin and says he thinks it might work._

_In the end, the spell doesn’t change Pitch all that much. It just traps the fearlings away from him._

_And when the crystal lights up, Bunny still chants ‘not the Groundhog, not the Groundhog’, but he’s not too worried. He knows who it will be. They all do._

_Except the second one, that one catches them a bit off guard._

_But then, Fear is a part of the balance too._

Jack blinks away tears as he pulls away from the crystal. He offers a soft thank you to Father Time, who is off in a hurry as soon as he packs it away.

“Are you alright Jack?” North asks, a heavy hand resting on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yes,” he says, smiling, “I’m good. Weird question.”

“Go ahead,” North offers.

“Do you have a spell with an ingredient that’s the ‘spinal column of a friend’?”

North’s face grows pensive, “I believe I might.”

Jack inhales deeply, looks everyone in the eye, “I think I might know how to cure Pitch.”

Sandy bounces up in the air, Tooth’s feather’s fluff, Bunny’s ears twitch, and North starts laughing.

“Well then,” he says, booming, “It might be time to make friends with the darkness.”

“It just might be,” Jack says with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on [tumblr](http://sprinkles888.tumblr.com)
> 
> crit is welcome as long as you stay away from telling me about all the inconsistencies in this timeline/historical accuracy. honestly, i have no energy in regards to that
> 
> <3 u frost-guardian


End file.
